The Zero Hour Read Online Free Page A

procedures, they’re inevitably chaotic and frenzied.
    Sarah elbowed her way through the jostling crowd (someone was smoking, though that was strictly verboten) and was halted by someone she didn’t recognize, a homicide detective from the look of him. He stood before her, blocking her entry, an immense monolith. Fifties, a hard drinker, balding; tall, muscular, spiteful.
    “Hey!” he boomed. “Who the hell are you?” Before she could reply, the detective went on: “Anyone who’s not on the list I’m going to issue a fucking summons, you understand? Plus, I’m going to start asking you all for reports.”
    She sighed, contained her exasperation. She produced her leather-encased FBI badge, and was about to speak when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
    “Sarah.”
    Peter Cronin, her ex-husband, told the other detective: “Sarah Cahill, from the FBI’s Boston office. Sarah, this is my new boss, Captain Francis Herlihy. Frank, you okayed this, remember?”
    “Right,” Herlihy conceded sullenly. He looked at her for a moment as if she’d said something rude, then pivoted toward a gaggle of non-uniformed men. “Corrigan! Welch! I need some evidence bags. I want that Hennessey’s bottle and the drinking glasses in the sink.”
    “Hello,” Sarah said.
    “Hello,” Peter said. They exchanged polite, frosty smiles.
    “Look, we can’t seem to turn up any of the deceased’s friends or relatives, so I’m going to have to ask you to identify the body.”
    “I was wondering why you invited me here.” Peter never did her a favor, either personal or professional, unless there was something in it for him.
    “I also figured we could help each other out on this.”
    Captain Herlihy turned back toward Sarah as if he’d forgotten something. His brow was furrowed. “I thought the feds didn’t do murder, except on Indian reservations or whatever the hell.” A little, sardonic smile, then: “Thought you guys just went after cops.”
    “Valerie was my informant,” Sarah said curtly.
    “She screwed cops?”
    “OC,” she said, meaning Organized Crime, and didn’t elaborate.
    As Herlihy walked off he said, “Don’t let her touch anything or fuck anything up, got it?”
    “Do my best,” Peter told his boss. As he led her toward the body, he remarked sotto voce , “Captain Francis X. Herlihy. Grade Double-A asshole.”
    “A gentleman and a scholar.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s a favor to me he’s letting you in here. Says a friend of his on the job shook down a gay bar in the South End last year and you guys jammed him up or something.”
    Sarah shrugged. “I wouldn’t know anything about it. I don’t do police corruption.”
    “Lot of the guys aren’t so happy you’re here.”
    She shrugged again. “Why so crowded?”
    “I don’t know, bad timing or something. First time in five years I’ve seen everyone respond at once. Everyone’s here but the Globe. Place is a fucking three-ring circus.”
    Peter Cronin was in his mid-thirties, blond, with a cleft chin. He was good-looking, almost pretty, and was not unaware of his effect on women. Even during their short-lived, tumultuous marriage, he’d had several “extracurricular activities,” as he blithely put it. No doubt there was a woman right now sharing his apartment who was wondering whether some bimbo—no, some other bimbo—would be attaching herself to Peter like a limpet this evening.
    As he pushed through the crowd with one hand, murmuring his hail-fellow-well-met greetings to his fellow cops, he asked: “How’s my little buddy?”
    “Jared’s probably watching Beavis and Butt-head even as we speak,” she replied. “Either that or Masterpiece Theatre , I’m not sure which. You’re not the primary on this, are you?”
    “Teddy is. I’m assisting.”
    “How was she killed?”
    “Gunshot. This is not a pretty sight, I should warn you.”
    Sarah shrugged, as though she’d visited thousands of murders, though in fact, as Peter knew,